


Five Sweaters to Make You Want Me

by kalewrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - Civil War, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky is swoonworthy, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Mention of blood, Mention of scars, Mostly Fluff, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalewrites/pseuds/kalewrites
Summary: The progression of your relationship with Bucky through his 5 different sweaters. Can you help him heal? Will he let you in?(Im sorry, this is hard to summarize.)





	

Bucky Barnes owns five sweaters.

  
Five, generic, patternless, boring and wonderful sweaters. He wears them like armour, tugging on the sleeves over his hands, hiding every inch of skin he can. Every time he tugs it’s like the sleeve is linked directly to your heart, small, invisible strings tugging on it like a gentle reminder - _help him_ \- it says with every tug.

  
He wore the red one the first day he took you up your offer to watch TV together. You’d been gently chipping away at him, trying to bring him further into the group, pulling at the edges of his walls until it finally crumbled just enough for you to peek into.

  
“Hey Buck, I’m gonna go binge watch some Netflix, wanna hang?” You keep your tone casual, not really expecting much of a response, more than the politeness, you really do want him to join you when he’s ready. When he’s ready for friends again.

  
“Uh, um…O-Okay.”

  
“Yeah?” He nods, eyes a little too wide like maybe he’s surprised himself too, “Awesome.” You grin at him, cheek achingly wide and full of so much happy you watch it bleed onto his face until he matches yours. What a pair you must be, standing around in the hallway grinning like mad men.

  
Once you’re both settled on the couches, you wrapped in a blanket on one side, him on the other, a whole mountain of snacks piled high between you, you flip lazily through the options, wondering what type of programme he might enjoy. It strikes you then you know nothing about him, despite him living along side you in the compound for the best part of 6 months now. Did he even know himself? A pang of something hit you then, not quite sadness but definitely not a happy feeling. You blink a few times, slow and long, to clear the thoughts and feelings.

  
“Fancy this?” You gesture with the remote at the screen, knocking your bag of chips from your lap and onto the mountain, you watch it slip and tilt just a little until it slides down and lands in Bucky’s lap. He picks them up and hands them back to you, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  
“Sure.”

  
You watch in relative silence, sliding your eyes over every so often to study his face, the set of his mouth, analysing if his shoulders are set stiff or if they are just that big you can’t tell the difference. Yeah, your eyes slide to his shoulders more often than not but it’s okay because he hasn’t turned his face from the TV even once.

  
“Are you okay?” His voice startles you a little, both of you being so quiet for so long it feels like he yelled instead of soft thrum he used.

  
“Huh? Yeah, course. Why?”

  
“You just uh, keep looking at me.”

  
_Busted._

  
You search for the right words to explain, minus the shoulders of course, “Oh. Yeah uh, m'sorry bout that. I just- I’m glad you’re here is all.”

  
He smiles, “Me too. This is…easy. Not easy, but- you know what I mean?”

  
“Yeah Buck, I know exactly what ya mean.”

\------------------

  
The blue one, the one that really brings out his eyes, yeah, he was wearing that one the first time you thought he might actually be getting better.

  
It was during another marathon TV binge, a weekly ritual with you and Bucky now; especially after a mission. You were lying on the couch, feet draped over his lap, stuffing popcorn into your mouth haphazardly. It was a quiet routine, a comfort, that had subtly fallen into place with you both. You didn’t ask anything of him, hell you didn’t even need the small talk just the company, and that was something you both needed. Company without the pressure of social normalities.

  
“Well, that’s us up to date on Game of Thrones.”

  
You tip your head back and place a piece of popcorn on your lips, blowing gently in an attempt to make it hover and failing miserably. Bucky leans over and swipes it mid air, raising an eyebrow at you as he pops the piece into this mouth. You smother your brain when it whispers- wasn’t that just on your lips too- and fake pout at him before a laugh punches free at his grin.

  
“Show me something iconic, something everyone know’s and love’s. Explain this century.” He implores

  
“Hmm, iconic huh? That explains this century? I think I got an idea.” You flip through the list until you find the one you’re looking for, “Ok, this is a personal favorite of mines, but I think you’ll like it.”

  
Your three episodes in when Scott wanders past on his way to the kitchen. He hovers, eyes glued to the screen, fingers curled over the back of the spare couch.

  
“You like this, Scott?” You ask when he’s finished laughing at the screen.

  
“Who doesn’t love Friends?” He gives you an incredulous look before vaulting over the couch and getting comfy.

  
Bucky glances over at him and for a minute you wonder if this is too much, if he’s going to leave now, but he simply nods at Scott and turns back to the screen. A surge of relief chased by pride washes over you and you can’t help but stare. He seems happier, you think, less grey. There’s color bleeding back into his soul.

  
Eventually they all trickle in, pulled from their rooms by the sound of laughter and the smell of popcorn. Everyone gives you and Bucky the couch, choosing to lounge on the various bean bags or even the floor just to respect enough of his boundaries. You watch him still, checking his eyes for any signs it’s become too much, sweeping over his shoulders to test for stiffness. He notices, a small smile pushing its way into his face as he slips his hand round your ankle, giving it a small pat.

  
Later, much later, you struggle to keep your eyes open and finally decide to head to bed, glancing over at Bucky who is laughing at Scott’s argument for why he is most like Joey.

  
“Come on, I’m clearly the ladies man of the group. I would have said Tony but he’s on lockdown.”

  
“Oh you wish, Tic-Tac. If anybody is Joey, it’s me. Hell, even Cassie prefers me.” Sam counters, rolling his eyes.

  
“Sorry to interrupt what I’m sure was a very intellectually stimulating discussion, but I’m hitting the hay. What about you, Buck?” You ask, if only to give him an out if he needed it.

  
“Uh, I’m good, Y/N.” You smile and pat his shoulder on the way past, he mouths a thank-you and your heart sings in your chest. You leave him there, chatting with Scott and Sam, lighting up the whole room with that beautiful laugh of his.

\------------------------

  
He’s wearing the green, almost khaki, one when you sit on the roof together to watch the 4th July fireworks display. It’s a warm night, warm enough that you’re sitting in your tank top and you know it’s too warm for the sweater, but still he tugs at those sleeves.

  
The air is clear out here, the sky is open and full of stars. You’d never seen this many stars before moving here, the lights of the City always drowning them out. The sight of them never failed to amaze you.

  
Bucky set up to loungers side by side, yours has a blanket folder over the back incase you get cold, and a cooler full of beer, it almost feels like a date. Almost.

  
After a few minutes of sitting side by side waiting on the show, you turn and catch him tugging at the collar, beads of sweat beginning to form on his neck.

  
“Hey, you could just take it off ya know?” You coax, gesturing towards the offending sweater.

  
He casts his eyes down, “Uh, that’s ok. M’fine.”

  
You slip a hand over to his, smoothing your fingers over the metal and under his sleeve just enough to link your fingers with his, “Whatever it is you’re worried about, you’re wrong ya know?”

  
He glances between your linked fingers and your eyes, hesitating before giving your hand a little squeeze. The thrum of your heart is so loud and insistent you actually sort of worry he can feel it through your joined hands, how much did he feel with that metal arm of his?

  
You give his hand an experimental squeeze, “Can you feel that?”

  
He nods, “I mean yes and no, my brain tells me to feel it. It’s not the same, it’s less…personal?” He huffs a little, brows furrowing, “I don’t really know how to describe it.”

  
“I think I get it, like its muted? Like someone touching you through a really thick blanket?”

  
“Yes. Exactly, yes.” He laughs, and it’s such a beautiful sound. If you could bottle that sound you could incite world peace. It takes a few seconds but your brain catches up and immediately throws itself towards your still joined hands.

  
“Do you hate it?” You ask

  
“No,” You glance at him, surprised, “I did, for a long time, but now, now I control it.”

  
“Then why the-” You gesture at his upper body.

  
“Uh, my uh, my scars. They make people uncomfortable.” He looks at you, lips twisted into a sad smile and a fragment of your heart splinters off.

  
“Bucky…you could never make me uncomfortable.” Your voice cracks a little so you clear your throat, eyes never leaving his, like that’s even possible with the way he’s looking at you. His eyes are glittering, what looks like gratitude in them and maybe something else, not the usual pain-torn grey orbs that are ever present.

  
He leans, or you do, you’re not sure who moves first but you gravitating towards each other. You eyes dart to his lips then back to eyes, his follow. There’s that unmistakable pull, winding tighter and tighter until-

  
“So this is where the party’s at?” Sam fucking Wilson. You fling yourself so far back and away from Bucky you almost fall off your lounger.

  
“Oh hey, Sam.” You say, bright and loud before muttering a quiet cockblock under your breath.

  
“What’s up, guys.” He walks round to your side, as Steve, Scott and Nat all come through the door after him, “I heard that.” Low and just for you.

  
You have the decency to look contrite, fighting the smirk on your face, Sam giving you the We’ll discuss this later eyes.  
Eventually, everyone’s filtered out onto the roof, someone somewhere sets up some music, soft and in the background. Tony has a BBQ going, one of those big fancy Grills that cooks a army of food all at once.

  
An impromptu party on the roof is happening, everyone’s here, laughing, having fun and Bucky looks almost at home. The way the fireworks light up his face, casting shadows and throwing light around enough to see the real, genuine smile on his face, well, it has you in knots.

  
—————

  
He’s wearing the black sweater when you’re sent on a mission together. The way it fits snug against him is so fucking distracting, curving along each muscle, layered with guns and ammo like he even needs them.

  
There was something about the way he held himself, this Bucky, the Soldier, stood tall and confident, moving with clear intent. He bends and slips a knife into the holster at his thigh, those glorious thighs, and the surety in how his fingers move, his deep level of comfort here is undeniably hot.

  
You work together well, seamless almost, picking your way through the Hydra agents until they had all scattered leaving you to extract the hostage and make your way home. You’re about halfway out of the building, enough that you allow the smallest edge of safe into your brain and it’s a mistake.

  
A huge mistake.

  
You hear the gunshot a second too late, but it’s all it takes. A second, you brace for impact, or prepare to brace, and the shots still ringing in your ears but there’s no pain. No anything.

  
You open your eyes- when did you close them?- and he’s there, looming over you, his face is thunderous. He turns to face the culprit, a wounded figure lying somewhere over there, one shot and he’s down again, down for good.

  
Bucky turns back to you, a frown marring his face and puts the pads of his fingers against his shoulder. They come away wet and red, and now it makes sense. He took the goddamn bullet for you.

  
“You took the bullet.” You voice sounds numb.

  
You should be grateful, you should be any number of things but what you are is inexplicably angry. Furious, even. It’s running through your veins and it’s all specifically aimed at Bucky. How dare he endanger himself for you.

  
“Why?” You ask, softly but so very full of feeling.

  
“Because it saved your life.” He says, like it’s completely obvious, and maybe it is to a reasonable and rational person but that’s not who you are right now.

  
You close the distance between you, hostage gently placed on the floor, and inspect his wound. It’s bleeding, but not as much as it would be if it had hit its intended target; you. Flipping out your knife, you rip away the fabric, before glancing up at him, silently asking for permission. He gives you a small nod, his jaw clenches and you move quickly, dipping the knife into the wound with precise and practised movements, freeing the bullet before his enhanced skin starts to knit itself closed. He makes no sound, gives no indication he’s in pain other than a small muscle in his jaw squeezing and contracting.

  
“I don’t need your protection you know.” You say, despite yourself, it sounds harsh, even to your own ears and he looks at you, face twisted in confusion but wisely saying nothing.

  
Back at Base, you drop the hostage off at Medical and stay with Bucky long enough to give a report before you’re disappearing up to your room. Despite the extra time spent under the hot spray of the shower, you feel more anxious than ever. You keep replaying that moment over and over, the way Bucky’s fingertips lit up with blood dances across your vision sending pulsing wave of anger up your spine.

  
Why were you so angry at him? It’s wasn’t the first time someone had taken a bullet for you, or you them. And in this team, it sure wouldn’t be the last. Your brain grasps at a thought before you push it away. It stays, insistant and just there, following you around the room as you pace enough to set the carpet on fire. Your brain screams, I know this, listen.

  
Shit.

  
You know why you’re so angry. You’re… in love with him.

  
You can’t stop, your muscles are being pulled and flexed by that magnetic pull. The walls blur as you race past them, mind fighting to catch up with what your body already knows. You get to his door and it slows, you hesitate now that you’re here. You go to knock, hand raised in the air, when the door swings inwards and Bucky’s standing there a little shocked and sporting his grey sweatpants and matching sweater. Your brain takes half a second to just…damn, grey sweater.

  
“Hi!” You say, sweeping your eyes up over the sturdiness of him and to his face.

  
“I was just coming to see you.”

  
“Me too… well, clearly, since I’m here…” Real smooth.

  
“You wanna come in?” He asks, signalling to the now open door.

  
“Oh-uh, yeah? Yes.”

  
You step around him and into his room, glancing around as you do. There’s a old picture of him and Steve propped up on his desk, they’re smiling, arms around each other’s shoulders, Steve’s wearing a helmet and Bucky is definitely Pre-Serum. You find yourself in front of it, thumb smoothing over the crinkles edges.

  
“It’s from before. Steve gave it to me.” His voice is a lot closer than you expected, the warmth of his breath hitting the back of your neck. You fight the urge to shiver, letting the silent sweep of goosebumps be the only giveaway to the sudden erratic thumps of your heart.

  
Pulling a deep breath in through your nose, you steel yourself -you can do this- and turn to face him. Your arm brushes against his stomach as you turn and you feel them twitch in response. Eyes drawn to his, there it is again, the ever present pull you feel to him.

  
“I’m sorry.” You half whisper, the urge to look away warring with that incessant pull, “For earlier. I’m sorry about how I acted.”  
“You wanna tell me what happened?”

  
“Not really.” He raises an eyebrow at you, a silent warning that maybe that wasn’t exactly a request. You chew mindlessly on your bottom lip, mind running over scenarios and explanations till you almost forget the truth. “It’s just, okay so I- uh, I care about you Buck and ya know that guy came out of nowhere and well, I’m not too proud to admit he scared me…”

  
You’re babbling, you know it and yet you can’t stop, words bubbling up out of you a little hysterically but you falter when Bucky gets this look, a look likes he’s waiting for something, expectant but like he already knows.  
“…and I just, I saw you and the blood and got so…angry.” You deflate, physically and emotionally, weariness seeping into your marrow now as you try to explain without explaining.

  
“So far, you’ve just told me what happened, Y/N. Not why it happened.” He inches closer still till your chests are touching, the steady thrum of that energy amplifying tenfold, “Why were you so angry with me, doll?” He looks at you, into you, waiting on something. It’s like he’s waiting for you to remember.

  
“I- cause I care about you. Cause the moment I saw the blood all I could think was not him. Not for me. You’re too important, too needed.”

  
“Needed by who?” He’s still searching.

  
“The world, the team, Steve…Me.” You whisper the last part, wanting and not wanting him to hear it.

  
“You?” He pushes, seeking more.

  
“Yes, me. I need you.” I love you.

  
“Fucking finally-” He leans into you, pressing his mouth hard against yours, working his lips over yours till they open to him, he sweeps through tasting and owning, leaving you utterly wrecked. You sway into him, hooking your hands up and over his shoulders, fingering digging into this muscles as you try to stay upright. He kisses you like he’ll never stop, like he can’t stop. Your brain slants and realigns, shorted enough that there’s only white noise now, no more screaming.

  
You pull back a little, gasping air into your lungs, “I- uh…”, you try to ask him but you can’t form the words.

  
He looks at you unflinching, “I need you, too.” Emphasis on the need like he knows that’s not what it means.

  
“Yeah?”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Your favorite sweater? The grey one looked pretty good when it was discarded behind him moments after your kiss.

  
Yes, definitely the grey one.


End file.
